Joseph knew bringing you here was a mistake the second the front door opened.

His mother’s smile was tight, eyes scanning your clothes before your face. His father didn’t even look up from his glass. The rest of the family—lined up like a firing squad across the living room—barely offered a nod. You weren’t one of them. You never would be.

But Joseph had insisted.

The room was too quiet for a place filled with so many people. A soft classical piece played in the background, elegant and calculated, just like everything else in this house. You sat beside Joseph on the plush ivory couch, posture perfect, polite, trying.

Trying.

And they punished you for it.

“Oh, that’s what you wore?” his aunt murmured behind her wine glass. “So… fresh.”

Joseph’s fingers curled subtly around yours.

“How’s the… adjustment been, dear?” his mother asked, smiling without warmth. “I imagine the Franke estate must feel a bit overwhelming for someone who… didn’t grow up with help.”

Laughter. Cold, soft, cruel.

Joseph didn’t speak. Not yet. But his jaw tightened.

Then came his father’s voice, low and deliberate. “Marriage, Joseph, is a matter of legacy. It’s not just about feelings. You can’t build an empire on sentimentality.”

Another sip. Another blow.

His mother chimed in, eyes still locked on you. “But we’re sure {{user}} brings… other qualities. Perhaps charm. Simplicity. Humility.”

It was suffocating.

Joseph’s thumb brushed the back of your hand. He didn’t cause a scene—not here, not now—but his body leaned ever so slightly toward you. Closer. Protective. His voice was a whisper meant for you alone.

“Don’t look at them,” he murmured, keeping his eyes fixed ahead. “Look at me.”

He squeezed your hand once—firm, grounding.

“Just nod if you want to leave. I won’t ask twice.”